EXTRACT FROM "PARIS IN 1815," BUT stoop or pass the tempest as it will; The Seraph, from whose forehead flames the sun, Then with one fiery foot upon the shore, And one upon the ocean's shrinking zone, With lifted hand and thunder's sevenfold roar, Send up his cry to Heaven, that Time shall be no more. Then the Deliverance comes! the crimson scroll, Speed on your swiftest wheels, ye golden spheres, The rose; the Pagan lifts th' adoring eye, The exiled Hebrew seeks the daybreak in the sky! I see the Tribes returning in their pomp; Before them moves the Babe of Bethlehem's star: They come with shout and hymn, and uplift trump That rang of old on Zion's holy air. They come from every region wild and far, That wo e'er trod, with every swarthy stain Of storm, and slavery, and barbaric war; Sons of the desert, dungeon, mountain, main; Turban'd, and capp'd, and helm'd, a countless, boundless train. One conflict more, the fiercest and the last! But from the cope of Heaven a sword shall share Down to the depths shall rush th' eclipsing star, A thousand years of night,—wild horror,-scorpion pain! Ancient of Days! that high above all height Sitt'st on the circle of eternity! The hour shall come, when all shall know Thy might, And earth be heaven, for it shall look on Thee! Blessed the eye which lives that day to see. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. SABBATH MORNING. DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me, And dear to me the winged hour, And dear to me the loud Amen, Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody, The music of a thankful heart. In secret I have often pray'd, And still the anxious tear would fall; But on thy sacred altar laid, The fire descends, and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands, Then dear to me the Sabbath morn; And always bid that heart rejoice. Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, Our's be the prophet's car of fire, WILLIAM KNOX. DIRGE OF RACHEL. GENESIS, Xxxv. 19. AND Rachel lies in Ephrath's land, The spring comes smiling down the vale, But Rachel never more shall hail The flowers that in the world are springing. The Summer gives his radiant day, And Jewish dames the dance are treading; The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, The Winter sends his drenching shower, To break the slumber that hath bound her. CHARLES WOLFE. "His poetical pieces are few in number, but they are of great excellence, though subordinate to the much loftier qualities of a zeal truly apostolic, and a vigorous and manly intellect, devoted unremittingly to the noblest cause, to which the human faculties can be devoted. It was not to crowded cities, nor to fashionable audiences, that Mr Wolfe dedicated his labours. In a miserable curacy in the province of Armagh, he suffered nearly as great privations as a missionary in heathen lands, labouring with zeal, to which he fell an early victim, to promote in all things the spiritual and temporal welfare of the poor people of his extensive parish. In the year 1821, when the typhus fever made such ravages in Ireland, the fatigue which Mr Wolfe encountered in visiting the sick-a duty to which he was peculiarly devoted-and his zeal in administer ing both to the spiritual and temporal wants of his poor flock, considerably affected his health. His gradual decay became visible to his parishioners, and some of them made affectionate private representations to his friends, who tried to withdraw him from the laborious duties of his parish for the recovery of his health. His character as a parish-priest will be contemplated with more delight than his genius as a poet, or eloquence as a preacher. It is thus delineated by a friend :-'As he passed by, all the poor people and children ran to the doors to welcome him with looks and expressions of the most ardent affection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell on their knees, invoking blessings on him, and making the most anxious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all that heartiness of expression, and that affectionate simplicity of manner, which made him as much an object of love as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of respect. The intimate knowledge he seemed to have of all their domestic histories, appeared from the short but significant questions he put to each individual as he hurried along, while at the same time he gave a sketch of the particular characters of several who presented themselves, pointing with a sigh to one, and to another with looks of satisfaction and fond congratulations. It was indeed impossible to behold a scene like this, which can scarcely be described without the deepest but most pleasing emotions. It seemed to realize the often-imagined picture of a primitive minister of the gospel of Christ living in the hearts of his flock, willing to spend and to be spent upon them, enjoying the happy interchange of mutual affection, and affording a pleasing proof that a faithful and firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to gain the hearts of the humble ranks of the people.' It was with extreme reluctance that Mr Wolfe, on the entreaty of his friends, left this poor and affectionate people to seek the restoration of his health in the south of France. He made a short recovery, but relapsed on his return to Ireland, and died in 1823, in the 32d year of his age, of deep consumption. What better blessing can be desired for Ireland, than that each of its parishes possessed a Charles Wolfe!" ODE ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NoT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory! VERSES. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, But I forgot, when by thy side, And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook, |